with the New Year storms that punch at the glass and wobble the zinc panels ten feet over my pillow. Been reading Robert Stone, bottles of Lucky lager in grid-street desert towns. “The mind is a monkey,” says Hicks, one of the players, steeling himself for a decision. Just go, do and live with the consequences. I’m not so sure, things don’t turn out well for Hicks. I mull on departures driving down to the shop in my trundler hatchback. I’m anchored in these roads and routines it feels but I know it can all change in a second, there are things I want to see. For six months or more I’ve been reading and dreaming on Daedalus and how he borrowed from nature to emulate the gods. I want to wade into the sea off Knossos and bob about under the higher realm, studying the cliffs for the opening to the Labyrinth. And I want to get back to Amsterdam, to pay my respects. And there are a dozen other planet pilgrimages and yearnings, they’re all open to me and on my mind, have been for years. I only need to earn the passage.